A Fear of Wolves
by I'm All Teeth
Summary: "Do not stray from the path again. There are terrible monsters in these woods that would like nothing more than to devour delicious little girls like you. Run along to your grandmother's house and pray stop for no one." Fairy Tales, retold.
1. Chapter 1: A Wolf in the Woods

Hello, my pets.

Firstly, so terribly sorry about being slow-to-update; I'm back at school and let me tell you it does a number on my writing time. Everything is settling down just fine, though, and so I shouldn't take too long to update, once I get a routine established.

Disclaimer: I own neither Little Red Riding Hood nor Harry Potter. The only thing I am responsible for is the way they are combined in the following paragraphs. I would be much obliged if you did not steal them.

Reviews make me unbelievably joyous.

Edited 06/26/2014

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Once upon a time, there was a village nestled against a thick and foreboding forest where lived a girl who was as beautiful as the day was long. Her eyes were large like two white-blue moons and her hair shone like spiderwebs in the sunshine. She had rose-colored lips and high applecheeks and everyone agreed that surely she was the most exquisite creature to ever grace the little village. When she was born, her mother named her "Astoria." Astoria was named for a purple-yellow shock of a flower that grew when the weather was warm and the word that some dead civilization used for the stars. Astoria: Lovely, frail, and pale. She was everything that beauty should be, but something in her eyes hinted that there was poison under her porcelain skin. She smiled just a little too wide at the village boys and laughed a little too loud at silly jokes. Of course no one hated Astoria – it was a small village and hatred was a very dangerous idea to throw around, especially in these dark times – but they knew to be nervous around her the same way cattle know how to be wary of hungry howls carried on the wind.

All admired Astoria for afar, but none loved her. None except for Hermione, that is. Hermione, named for the virtuous and beautiful queen of some dead poet's vision, was everything that Astoria was not. Her hair flew indecisively about her head and her eyes, though a decent shape and size, were an average, muddy brown. While not a soul could say that she was not comely in her own way, she was distinctly plain and no more appealing than dirt when placed next to the ethereal and airy Astoria. This did not deter Hermione from befriending the statuesque young girl, though.

While the village kept the quiet and lovely Astoria at a distance, they held Hermione to them with warm and loving arms, for Hermione was as kind and intelligent as her friend was lovely. "Ah!" Many a villager had lamented, "If only Hermione had Astoria's features or Astoria, Hermione's gifts and heart! What a lovely girl that would be!"

The two girls had been friends from childhood and never was one seen without the other. This was very well and good as far as the rest of the village was concerned; it was better to have them together than apart, after all. Strange things happened when either girl was around, but less frequently when they were together. Still, the unexplained events that followed the unlikely pair like shadows were not discussed. Such talk could be seen as unnecessary – or even dangerous- these days.

In recent times, a plague of deaths and bad luck had invaded the little village, and instead of speaking in laughter and smiles, the denizens scurried about their business with their eyes rolling and their lips thin. There had been Trouble, strange Trouble, and it had come from the woods.

The Trouble was first announced by Vernon the Farmer when he ran into town, announcing that his flock had been slaughtered in the night.

"Wolves," The elders nodded to each other, their eyes flying anywhere but on the bloody and deflated bodies of Vernon's sheep.

A week later, Trouble returned on quick feet, when the screams of Hannah Abbot echoed around the village square, the sound bouncing off of the high trees and scaring the horses. A troop of men with torches and pitchforks found her lying in a teary heap, just on the edge of the forest. Mr. Granger (the town barber-surgeon) had reported that there was not a mark on her body. When the girl had recovered enough sense to explain, she just shook a trembling head. All she could remember were pointed faces and barking laughter.

"Terror of wolves," Agreed the elders, talking amongst themselves and leaving the stricken girl too soon to hear Hannah's tripping tongue decree once, and only softly to Hermione, that the wolves had spoken, although in a language she did not understand. "Crucio," She told Hermione, her eyes wide with honest fear, "That's all they said."

A mist settled like water over the town next, and with it came a bleakness and misery that spread like a sickness through the houses. Shops closed and windows stared vacantly out at empty streets.

Tom the Crier began acting strangely. His face was pale and his eyes were dead. His wife, Mary, whispered tearfully to her neighbors that he had been rising in the middle of the night and walking into the dark woods, which swallowed him instantly from her view. She never followed him, of course. She was heavy with child and the woods were dangerous, besides. No one went into the woods anymore, if they could help it.

And the elders could not explain this, but felt no need to. These were dark times, after all, and men sometimes did strange things.

Less than a fortnight after Mary had brought her fears to the elders, Tom killed her. Mrs. Dursley had walked into Tom and Mary's kitchen to find Mr. Riddle's hands clasped around Mrs. Riddle's purpled throat. The only sound was the drip, drip, drip of the tears that ran unchecked down Tom's cheeks. Vernon and his enormous son, Dudley, were forced to break Tom's fingers to remove them from Mary's throat, and by then, her body was as cold as stone.

And the elders did not look each other in the eye and Tom was hanged and life limped along in the village as best it could, although none went near Tom Riddle's now empty house, if they could help it.

"It's got to be someone like us," Hermione whispered to her friend as they walked the Granger's horse to the stream. Everything was whispered these days, even when there was no one else around to hear.

"They say it's wolves," responded Astoria in her articulate and ineffectual way.

"But you don't actually believe that, do you?" Hermione replied, rolling her eyes, "You can't seriously think that everything that has been happening here recently is because of a pack of silly wolves? There haven't even _been_ wolves iaround here for almost a hundred years!"

Astoria's enormous eyes turned languidly on Hermione, "I think," she said quietly, "That it might be bad for us to start telling people that _someone like us_ is making these things happen. I think it would associate us unnecessarily with the wrong people. Besides," she tossed her platinum head, "We can only turn sheep pink or make candles light just by thinking about them. Neither of us has ever conjured mist or made a man kill his wife."

Hermione weighed her friend's words. Astoria had always been very good at looking out for them both and keeping them out of trouble. So, Hermione let the subject drop, trusting her friend's conniving mind.

Later that same morning, a letter arrived in town for Astoria from her Grandmother. Astoria's mother had died shortly after childbirth, and consumption had claimed the lives of her father and elder sister later that same year, leaving only the baby Astoria and "The Greengrass Witch" to carry on the family name. Of course, everyone knew that the old Greengrass woman could not be a witch (such things were not real), but the entire family had been distinctly odd.

One could always count on the Greengrass Witch for a tincture or brew to cure ailments, but only if the enquirer was brave enough to travel into the woods to her cottage. Due to the events of recent months, however, the number of souls brave or foolish enough to pass through the dark trees had decreased. Not even Astoria ventured into the woods any longer, although no one was too surprised at that. She had been living with the Grangers for many years and traveled to see her grandmother only when the Witch needed something from town delivered.

The letter that came into town today, clutched in the talons of the speckled brown owl that The Greengrass Witch kept as a pet, carried an unwelcome mission for Astoria. It demanded supplies from town and urgently, too.

Astoria looked unhappily at Hermione. She hated her grandmother and made no secret about it to her friend. "I don't want to go," she said simply, "The old hag can starve for all I care, or shrivel up, or do whatever it is that old hags do when they don't get supplies."

Hermione, who had always rather liked the old woman (she had an endless supply of books, which Hermione greatly appreciated), smiled appealingly back. "She's not all that bad," she tried to reason.

Astoria's bottom lip trembled. "But it's dangerous to go into the woods now! She _has _to know that! Oh, I hate her! I hate her!" She covered her pretty mouth with a dainty hand, muffling a sob.

Hermione felt her own heart softening at her friend's tears. "Surely it isn't as bad as you think it is," she wheedled, throwing a comforting arm around the younger girl.

"But I can't think of a way to get out of this, Hermione! I can't think of anything at all!"

"Well," said Hermione, reluctantly. She wasn't entirely sure that what she was about to suggest would be a good alternative, but really, what choice did she have? Astoria had never been particularly brave. Not like her, anyway. "I suppose I could run a basket of things out to her," she pronounced slowly.

Astoria's outlook changed in a flash, and Hermione knew she had been played as astutely as when Astoria convinced boys to fetch her flowers from the edge of the wood. "You really wouldn't mind?" she asked hopefully.

"Well, I suppose not," conceded Hermione finally. She had already offered, and how dangerous could a few silly, nonexistent, wolves be, anyway? Hermione was sure that she could take care of herself. "I've got to return a few book to her, besides."

"Oh, thank you, Hermione!" sang Astoria, "I'll even lend you my riding cloak, if you'd like. The pretty red one!"

Hermione, who had always secretly loved the thick red material, found this to be some consolation, at least.

A few hours later, just as the sun was reaching the highest point in the sky overhead, Hermione threw the red cloak over her thin shoulders and picked up the basket from the table.e "I'm leaving," she said, secretly annoyed with the haste Astoria had made to prepare everything for her journey. "I'll be back by nightfall," Hermione promised, and stepped out of the door and into the woods.

The woods were lovely, although eerily silent, as though all of the birds and small creatures were holding their breath while the girl in the little red riding cloak walked by them.

Very soon, she came to a fork in the road, and there she stood for a moment to consider a patch of flowers that was illuminated by a jagged mouth of light which had somehow fallen through the trees. Ought she to pick some for the grandmother? Everyone knew that you were not to leave the trail, but surely, a few feet and a handful of lovely white daisies wouldn't hurt anything, would they? She decided that the Greengrass Witch would be happy with a few pretty flowers, and probably also for the Monkshood that was growing a little further from the trail.

She had gathered an armful of daisies and herbs and was heading back toward the path when a smooth voice from behind her called out, "Good afternoon, Young Miss. And what, pray, are you doing?" Hermione's heart rioted at the noise, and her hair and her cloak whipped behind her as she turned.

She was quite perplexed by the sight that greeted her. Leaning against a tree was a handsomely dressed gentleman. His arms were folded lazily over his chest and a slim piece of wood was held loosely in his fingers. The most remarkable thing about this man, though, was his face, which was hidden behind the mask of what looked like a large gray dog.

"Good afternoon," she replied, curtsying and sounding much braver than she felt.

The well-dressed young man unfolded his arms and stalked toward her. She took an involuntary step backward.

"I'm afraid," said the figure's drawling voice again, taking a step forward, "That this is a very dangerous place for young girls to be walking these days."

She bristled slightly at this, despite her fear. 'Little girl'? Who did this fellow think he was? She asked him as much.

He chuckled and spread his arms wide, bowing deeply to her. "Why, I am simply Mister Wolf, and a pleasure to make your acquaintance, miss...?"

"If you're only Mr. Wolf, then I suppose that I'm only Red Riding Hood," she quipped before she could stop herself. There was something at once thrilling and terrifying about this young man, and although answering in this way sent a thrill of terror down her spine, it also invigorated her. She caught the wolf's gray eyes with her own, and something hungry stared back at her.

"A fitting response, Miss Hood," purred Mr. Wolf, "But alas! I've lost my way, you see. Tell me, do you know where I am?"

Now, Hermione was no fool, and it was obvious that Mr. Wolf was lying, and although better sense warned her to simply leave now, curiosity was stronger and so she responded. "You are in the Black Forest, at the fork of the Path of Needles and the Path of Pins."

"And where does each path lead?" Asked Mr. Wolf as he circled her. She turned in place, keeping her face on his. The cloak rustled the dead leaves around her feet, sounding like applause or quiet laughter.

Hermione licked her lips before answering again, "They meet again at the Cottage of Lady Greengrass."

"Is that where you are going today?" inquired the wolf, too politely.

Ah yes. Now Hermione knew what he was after. "I'll not tell you that," she replied firmly. To her surprise, he merely chuckled at this and she had the overwhelming feeling that he was laughing at her.

"Very well, Red Riding Hood. But tell me this, at least: Does the Greengrass Witch have a granddaughter?"

"Yes," she said in a slow and puzzled voice. This was certainly an unusual question to be asked by a stranger in the wood.

The man in the mask took a graceful step forward, dead twigs snapping like bones under his boots, "And tell me true, Red Riding Hood, for I have heard it said that the Greengrass Witch is a most accomplished seamstress."

"That is one of her many talents, yes," Replied the girl in the cloak cautiously, taking an involuntary step back as he moved forward again.

"Then certainly the Greengrass Witch would use all of this skill to craft something lovely for her young granddaughter?" He suggested, his voice sounded half like a growl and half like a purr, and as he took another step forward, he twirled the thin piece of wood between kid-gloved fingers.

She clutched the cloak tighter around herself protectively, "That would be a logical assumption, yes," said lion-hearted Hermione, her voice clear and loud despite her mounting terror.

The man in the mask made to take another step forward, but as he did, the dry leaves on the ground before him burst into flame. He paused, looking coolly down at the newly-sprouted bright blue flames for a moment before saying in a clear and disinterested voice, "Aguamenti." A stream of silvery water shot from the end of the thin stick he carried and he directed it at the flames.

Steam curled between them like ethereal fingers and he turned his cold gray eyes back to her face. "Well, well, well," he said in his low and unbothered voice, "That _is_ an interesting trick you have, Little Red Riding Hood. Now, tell me this, which path do you plan to take today?"

Too shocked to do anything but tell the truth, she told him, "The Path of Pins."

He shook his long gray face, "No, it would be best to take the Path of Needles, for the light is fast fading and that road is much the shorter. You'd do well not to stray from the path again," He warned ominously as he bowed out of her way, "There are terrible monsters in these woods that would like nothing more than to devour delicious little girls like you. Run along to your grandmother's house and pray stop for no one."

Without even bothering to correct his assumption that she was the Greengrass Witch's granddaughter, she hastened down the path, the red cloak billowing wide and terrible like a great vermilion beast close on her heels.


	2. Chapter 2: The Wolf in the Cottage

**Author's Note: **I don't own the characters or spells. All I own are my ideas, so please don't steal them.

Also, I'm sorry it took me so long to update, my pets. Life has been hectic, to say the least. I meant to update on Wednesday-ish, but then everything sort of went to hell after that. Well, enough about that. Thank you for being patient, lovelies.

Edited 06/26/2014

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Hermione raced down the path, her cloak a red streak trailing behind her, the basket swinging in her reaching arms. Although the still air stung her throat as she ran, she did not stop or slow until she reached the home of the Greengrass Witch. The witch's cottage in the woods was nothing that a normal cottage would be. It was large and imposing, with innumerable dark windows and a black iron gate that wrapped around the house and disappeared behind it.

Here, Hermione had to stop, for no one could enter the Greengrass Witch's home without direct approval. She wrapped her fingers around the cold metal, and at once, a loud voice boomed, "Who's that at my gate?" The voice echoed around the silent trees and Hermione hoped no one else was listening.

"It is I, Hermione," she answered, her voice trembling as she gasped for breath.

"Hermione," whispered the disembodied voice, "Lift the latch and come in."

Obediently, she lifted the heavy latch and the gate swung noiselessly inward. She stepped through and walked up the cobblestone path to the front door. The house before her was so large that it stood taller than the bare, finger-like trees that surrounded it. Sunset was bleeding red across the heavens and Hermione swallowed her trepidation. She had not wanted to be this late in arriving for she was unsure of who- or what- she would meet when she walked back.

Once she reached the front door, she knocked again. "Come in," crackled the harsh voice of the old Greengrass Grandmother. Hermione turned the knob and walked in.

"I'm in the parlor," called the old woman, and Hermione followed the sound of the voice through darkening rooms. She stopped in the doorway of the right room, for she could see the outline of a stooped person, framed in the red light that filtered through an old and grimy window. The figure took a step towards Hermione, and the floorboards screeched. Hermione did not move or speak. The hairs on the back of her neck rose.

"Incendio," snapped the old woman, and a red fire leaped into life in the enormous hearth, casting a harsh light on Madame Greengrass. Hermione let out a breath she hadn't realized she had been holding. No one else could know the old woman's secret fire-making word. She was just still a little shaken up by her strange run-in with Mr. Wolf. that was all. There was nothing to be afraid of here.

"Take your hood off, child," Astoria's grandmother commanded, her ice-chip eyes taking in Hermione's wind-swept curls and flushed face.

At these orders, Hermione untied the scarlet cloak and draped it lovingly over one arm. "What shall I do with it?" she asked politely. As full as the house was of books and intimidating-looking high-backed chairs with clawed feet, there were relatively few places to leave cloaks and this one was a work of ornate and incredible beauty and belonged to Astoria, so she was loathe to treat it poorly.

The old woman turned away from Hermione, and shuffled through another door on the other side of the room, the floor screaming in protest while she walked. Over her shoulder, the grandmother called, "Just throw it in the fire; You won't need it again."

Hermione was perplexed by this, but was quite attached to the cloak, and so instead of throwing it on the fire, she folded it neatly and placed it gently into her basket before following the old woman into the next room. The room beyond the parlor was the library, and innumerable books lined the walls up to the ceiling and a small silver top was spinning and whistling quietly from a table beside a dark-stained wooden chair. The Greengrass witch was seated in this chair imperiously. As Hermione entered, the old woman's lip curled in a cold smile. "You must be hungry, my dear," she said, her voice like rat's feet on a cellar floor, "Go into the kitchen. There you'll find a little bread and wine. Eat that and then come back and sit with me, for we have much to discuss."

"Oh no," said Hermione quickly, not wanting to impose, "I've only come to bring you the supplies you wanted. I really ought to be getting right home."

"No, no," the old woman waved a gnarled hand before her warped face, "I insist that you stay, if only for a little while. I am old, and terribly lonely. Would you deny an old witch her brief happiness?"

Hermione was taken aback by this. The old woman had never been particularly interested in her before. Of course, she had been civil when Hermione had come on visits with Astoria, but whenever she looked at Hermione before, it had always been with an unmistakable mild aversion. Furthermore, as far as Hermione knew, Madame Greengrass had never called herself a witch before.

But Hermione was a kind girl and decided that the old grandmother was simply lonely, and she really could do nothing but obey. So, Hermione walked through the dark and silent house until she located the kitchen. After a moment's search, she found a small loaf of golden-brown bread and a glass pitcher of dark red wine. She sat down at a polished black-oak table with these supplies and was just about to bite into the honey-colored loaf when a large ginger cat hopped onto the table beside her and began meowing loudly, his bottle-brush tail twitching in apparent anger.

Hermione instantly recognized the feline as Madame Greengrass's flat-faced Crookshanks. "Hello, Crooks," she cooed, holding out her hand. The cat simply hissed and swatted at her with a paw. She retracted her hand quickly, and so avoided getting scratched, but was confused. She had always got on splendidly with the onerous feline. Indeed, she had been the only one who had. "What's wrong, Crookshanks?" she asked, and was answered by a low growl in the cat's throat.

Deciding that there was nothing she could do about the cat at the moment, she returned her attention to the bread. She lifted it to her mouth, but just as she was about to take a bite, Crookshanks leaped forward with a yowl of rage and dashed the bread to the floor. "Crookshanks! What on earth-" But she was unable to finish her question, because the cat leaped off of the table and through the open kitchen window.

With considerable regret (she had been quite hungry) she picked the spoiled loaf off the floor and disposed of it before turning her attention to the wine, which she was eager to enjoy, for she was very thirsty. She unstoppered the bottle, and just as she raised it to her parched lips, she heard the high call of an owl and turned just in time to see a large snowy owl soar through the still-opened window. The owl landed beside her at the table and held one taloned-foot out to her. It clutched a roll of parchment sealed with blood-red wax. The owl was obviously waiting for her to take the letter, and so she did. Before she could even remove the seal, the owl spread its alabaster wings and flew back out the way it had come.

Hermione stood and closed the window before any other animal or avian could find its way indoors. This completed, she sat back at the table and opened the missive carefully. Written therein were five words and no signature: _The Wolves are near. Beware_. Cold fear wrapped its skeletal fingers around Hermione's throat. Did the sender mean actual wolves? Could they get inside? She had to warn Madame Greengrass!

"Granddaughter?" came the old woman's call, "Granddaughter, where are you?"

"Coming," she called back, too distracted to hear Madame Greengrass's mistake, and, letter clutched in one hand. She stood and strode purposefully back toward the study.

The old woman was still seated in the high chair, looking at her, but something seemed different. Perhaps it was only the light of the fire dancing off her face, but Greengrass's skin looked almost bubbling. "What is it, my child?" Asked the woman, as if reading her mind.

"Well, Madame Greengrass-"

"Please, call me grandmother," interrupted the old woman, a saccharine smile curling on her lips. Something was definitely wrong. The old woman had never even wanted Astoria to call her grandmother.

Perhaps it was the fear of wolves that was causing Madame Greengrass to act in such a way? Figuring that it was only this, Hermione said again, "Grandmother, I'm sorry, it's just I always thought you wore glasses."

"Why, so I did, my dear, but you are close enough now that I don't need them to see you. Come a little closer, my pet." 'Grandmother' Greengrass curled one long, smooth finger toward her.

Her legs moved forward of their own accord one step and her heart hammered in her ears. Something was definitely wrong, and she realized that the ill-fitted piece was the old woman. All she could do was try to reason through it. "Grandmother," she said now, "What young and lovely hands you have." For indeed, the old woman's hands appeared to be those of a much younger woman, and the nails wrapped around the piece of wood she clutched were painted a deep crimson.

"All the better to hold you with, my dear," purred the old woman, but her voice no longer crackled with age.

Hermione tried to take a step backward, but some invisible force was holding her in place. "Grandmother, what a clear voice you have," she forced out of her mouth. Had the Greengrass witch used one of her powerful words? But she hadn't said anything, had she?

"Why, all the better to teach you spells with, my dear," purred the youthful voice behind the gnarled countenance, her dark hair and eyes glinting in the firelight.

"Grandmother," Hermione's voice trembled now and she was beginning to feel desperate. The Greengrass witch's hair had been as white as snow, or at least it should be. "What fine, dark hair you have."

"All the better to keep warm and beautiful, my pet," came the unhurried response.

Was this not-grandmother toying with her? A new anger began to vie with the already-established fear for possession of Hermione's constitution. What sort of fool did the woman in the chair take her for?

"Grandmother," she said, with as much hatred as she could muster, "What a large, annoying mouth you have."

The now-young woman in the chair before her glared, her lip curling in an unmistakable sneer. "A uneducated little muggle brat like you _dares_ to talk to me in such a way?" she hissed, rising to her feet and pointing the stick at Hermione, who was still frozen to the floor. "Well, fine, _my darling_, all the better to curse you with! Avada ke-"

But whatever the woman had been trying to say would go forever unfinished, because right at that moment, the fireplace roared green and a figure came whirling out of it, shouting "Stupify!" A flash of red light erupted before her eyes, and the dark-haired woman fell to the floor, a snarl still frozen upon her lips.

"Are you alright?" the newcomer asked, darting up to Hermione. It was then that she realized that the newcomer was not one person, but two young men about her own age, staring at her now with more than a little concern, sticks like the woman's clutched in their hands and pointed at her chest. Before she could answer the question the first man – who had untidy dark hair and bottle-green eyes- had posed to her, the second man – much taller than his companion, with shaggy red hair and distrustful blue eyes – barked, "Who are you?" with much more ferocity than she had anticipated.

She puffed indignantly at this. "Hermione Granger," she snapped, glaring at the fiery-haired man. "And who are you?" she demanded in return.

They blinked at her, taken aback. Clearly this was not what they had been expecting. When they didn't respond right away, she asked, "Is the woman on the floor completely immobilized? You might want to check."

The young men gaped at her, but the black-haired one went to check while the other one continued to glare at her. She paid her guard no mind, and instead watched as the other man murmured words and thick ropes shot from the end of his wand, wrapping tightly around the still-prone woman on the floor. He then stood and proceeded to hold his stick aloft, saying strange words Hermione didn't recognize. After a few long moments of this, during which she stayed politely silent, the dark-haired man returned to his companion's side. "Let's go to the kitchen," he suggested, "Talk about what's happened."

"You want to talk," spluttered the redhead, "With her? We don't even know who she is, do we? Could be one of them, couldn't she?"

"We won't know until we _talk to her_, Ron," replied the other wearily.

The Ron-apparent blustered some response and the still-nameless other one turned to her and suggested quite nicely, "Do you want to go to the kitchen to talk with us for a bit?"

"I can't," she said simply.

There was a moment of tense silence before the polite man asked, "Why not?"

"I can't move my legs," she said simply, deciding that honesty was probably the best policy in this situation.

The two young men shared knowing glances and "Leg locker," said Ron.

The shorter one pointed his wooden stick at Hermione and said, "Finite Incantatem."

Instantly, Hermione's knees buckled underneath her, and she collapsed to the floor, shaking. She felt as though she had run a marathon. She shot the nicer man a panicked look. "What's going on?"

"It's alright," he said soothingly, "This actually isn't an uncommon reaction. Now, up you get," and putting a hand under each of her arms, he heaved her back into a standing position. "Let's go talk about this in the kitchen, shall we?"


	3. Chapter 3: Stories of Wolves

**Author's Note: **I don't own anything. If I did, I wouldn't be working so hard to pay for my meals, Dramione would be canon, and names like Albus Severus would not be allowed (because it really is a shit name). Thank you, that is all.

I'm not going to apologize for being slow anymore. You and I both know that it sucks and I'm irresponsible, but my life is busy and blah blah blah. Just enjoy the story.

I love reviews.

Edited 06/26/2014

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Hermione watched as a spider walked on jointed legs across the surface of the table. She clasped and unclasped her hands. There are two kinds of horror stories. The first kind lives in the sighs of ghosts and imagined closet-monsters. They are dubious and in the world of light and fact, they are as insubstantial as dream. The other scary story is the one told at a scrubbed kitchen table by complete strangers. It is terrifying because it is true. Even if logic tells you to doubt, when young men who carry magic sticks cannot meet your gaze as they tell you who is lurking in the woods, you know in your bones to believe them. Hermione swallowed her mounting fear and spoke.

"Allow me to paraphrase. You mean to tell me that there are people in this world- like the two of you and Madame Greengrass- who can use magic. Cast spells. Like the things in children's stories."

The boy called Harry nodded.

"You are called witches and wizards," she said flatly.

Harry nodded again.

"You keep yourselves hidden from normal – I mean, people who can't use magic – and we basically live in parallel worlds."

"Yes, but that's not the important issue right now." Harry said quickly, "What's important is that there are two kinds of witches and wizards: There are the ones, like us, who are good and don't mind letting muggles like you live in your world while we live in ours. The other kind of wizard-"

"Like the woman who was pretending to be Madame Greengrass," Hermione supplied.

"Yes, like her, are Death Eaters, who want to exterminate all nonwizards."

Hermione nodded silently, processing everything. "So, where exactly do witches and wizards come from?" She was thinking about the stories of leprechauns sprouting out of trees and spirits living in rivers.

"Uh, well, I come from a family of wizards," supplied Ron.

"And my mum was a muggle-born witch. My dad came from a wizarding family, too." Said Harry, although a flicker of pain passed through his eyes.

Hermione had a difficult time digesting the word 'muggle'. "So, witches and wizards can be born from nonmagical people," she echoed, and Harry nodded again.

"If that's the case, how do they learn to use their," she thought for a moment, trying to choose her words carefully, "power?"

Harry turned to Ron, who shrugged. "Don't know. There isn't exactly some big school for learning this stuff. Mum learned how to use magic because there was a witch who lived nearby. I think that's how it's generally done."

"So what does someone do if they're born with magical powers and there's no one around to teach them?" she asked and the boys exchanged glances across the table before both shook their heads. They did not know.

"But this group of wizards, Death Eaters, don't think that muggle born witches and wizards should be allowed to use magic. They think that magic should be kept completely within pure wizarding families," she continued. She was the brightest girl in her town, but this was still an awful lot to take in at once. The boy called Ron nodded sadly.

So, Hermione asked, "What were they doing here?"

Harry and Ron exchanged a glance. Hermione wondered what they were thinking. "Well," began Harry slowly, weighing his words carefully, "Persephone Greengrass was a pureblood witch, but she married a muggle. They, uh, they don't like when pure-bloods marry muggles. It makes them blood-traitors."

"But Persephone was Madame Greengrass's daughter. She died years ago," she exclaimed.

"And after that, Madame Greengrass started helping us," replied Harry, pushing his glasses up the bridge of his nose. She had never seen glasses like those before. The only ones in the village belonged to Madame Greengrass and were small and round with shining golden frames.

Hermione nodded slowly. A groan escaped from the library. Apparently the woman who was not Madame Greengrass was waking up. Harry and Ron stood simultaneously, and Hermione followed the motion a few moments later. "We've wasted enough time already," said Harry, his tone suddenly sharp.

"What are we going to do with," Ron glanced at Hermione.

"Hermione Granger," she supplied for the second time.

"That's an odd name," commented Ron.

"And you are a man in a dress." She shot back sharply, nodding at his black outfit.

"It's not a dress," was the prim response, "I'm wearing robes, but I wouldn't expect a muggle like you to know that."

Hermione opened her mouth to respond to this, but Harry cut in. "Anyway, Ron, we can't exactly leave her here, can we? Why don't you take her back to the Burrow with you and I'll take Bellatrix Lestrange to the ministry."

Ron nodded in assent, "Alright. We'll meet back home in a bit, then."

Although Hermione was thoroughly confused by the dialogue passing over her head, the two young men seemed to know exactly what they were talking about and walked confidently back into the library, where the woman with black hair was struggling against her binds, a furious expression in her gaze. Harry picked up her wand from where it had been discarded on the floor, and tossed it casually to Hermione, who caught it with fumbling fingers. "Hold on to this, will you?"

"Idiot boy," screeched the woman, "Don't give my wand to that filthy muggle! You're sullying it! You're-"

"_Silencio_," grumbled Ron, pointing his wand at her. Immediately, she was silent, although her lips still moved furiously. "Right mate, best get going."

Harry nodded, and said something under his breath that caused the woman, in all of her binds, to float in the air before him like an angry marionette. Using his wand as a guide, he maneuvered the floating woman back into the kitchen, smacking her head on the doorframe as he went.

"Whoops, sorry Bellatrix," he said, although Hermione did not think he sounded sorry at all. Ron walked behind them, and Hermione followed slowly behind him, still clutching the wand to her chest. As she passed the high-backed chair, she paused, and picked up the vermilion cloak and threw it around her shoulders. When she entered the kitchen, Harry was straightening over the fireplace, where high green flames were shooting up the chimney. Hermione fought the urge to jump backward.

"Good thing she was connected to the floo network," commented Ron offhandedly. Hermione intended to ask what that meant, but the caught in her throat because just then, as she watched, Harry stepped right into the flames, pulling the bound woman in beside him.

"The Ministry of Magic,"said Harry in a loud, clear voice, and the green fire flared and then died completely, leaving a trace of neither Harry nor the woman. Hermione fell to her knees, shaking uncontrollably.

"What's the matter with you?" asked Ron, eying her cautiously.

"They're gone," she managed to squeak eventually.

"Oh that. You've never seen a floo before?"

When she shook her head, he said, "Blimey, how do muggles travel? Anyway, it's not as bad as it looks." He pulled a small pouch out of some hidden pocket and opened it, revealing bright green powder, "Just take a pinch of floo powder- this stuff- throw it on the fire, step into it, say 'The Burrow,' and the powder will do the rest. I'll go first, so you'll see me when you're supposed to get out, alright?"

She nodded mutely and took a pinch of the proffered powder. Hermione watched, partly in horror, partly in fascination, as Ron stepped into the fireplace and disappeared just as Harry had. In a flash of green light, she was all alone in the cottage. She rose to her feet and walked apprehensively toward the hearth. She wasn't afraid of the fireplace; she was simply curious. How did flu powder work? What distinguished wands from plain-old sticks? She raised her hand to cast the green powder when a sound caused her to turn, brandishing the wand in her free hand, her heart in her mouth.

Crookshanks scampered toward her, his bottle-brush tale completely erect. She bent down, and he leaped into her arms, his claws like tiny needles in her shoulders. "Do you want to come?" She asked the cat, and he meowed loudly, almost as if he understood the question. Because she could not leave the cat behind in an empty house with nothing to eat, she stuck the wand in a pocket of the cloak, and returned her attention to the fireplace, holding the cat to her like a baby.

Hermione threw the powder into the fireplace and noted that, while she jumped as the flames roared into life, the cat appeared completely unfazed. Just as she was about to step into the flames a silky voice behind her purred, "Leaving so soon, my pet?"

Without even thinking about it, she whipped the wand out of her pocket and screamed "Stupify!" She was rewarded with a flash of red light that erupted from the tip of the wand, and the man in the wolf mask stumbled backwards. He did not fall to the ground the way the woman had when Harry had shouted the same word, but the mask slipped from his face, revealing very handsome youth with silver-blond hair and angry gray eyes staring at her. A snarl was etched on his sharp features, but he did not attack immediately. She didn't wait for him to regain his composure, and jumped into the flames and shouted "The Burrow!"

Her last glimpse of the Greengrass Witch's cottage was of the blond man, reaching one hand toward her, before everything began to spin.


	4. Chapter 4: To House a Wolf

**Author's Note:** Hey. Sorry this took so long. Life got busy. This is dedicated exclusively to flamelm, whose questioning of my location is actually the only reason I got off my lazy ass to post this. So. Yeah.

Edited 06/26/2014

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Hermione spilled from the fireplace and then everything happened all at once. The red cloak wrapped around her legs and caused her to stumble forward onto the stone floor. The wand tumbled out of her grasp and rolled away. Crookshanks pushed himself from her arms and vanished out an open window. It took a moment for the world to stop spinning.

"Are you alright?" asked Ron, his voice loud with concern. He touched her elbow gingerly and handed the wand back to her.

"Fine," she replied hurriedly, brushing the ash off of the cloak.

"Mum!" called Ron, "Mum, we've brought someone home!"

There was no response. Ron took several lumbering steps toward the kitchen table and snatched up a folded piece of paper that had been laying on its scrubbed surface.

The fireplace flashed green and Harry spun into view. He stepped out of the fireplace toward Hermione.

"What is it, Ron?" he asked, noticing the dark frown on Ron's countenance.

"It's from Mum. There was an attack at the cottage. They're all there now."

Harry snatched the note from Ron, his eyes darting quickly across the page. "We've got to go help them," he announced, handing the note back to Ron, who stuffed in back in his pocket, nodding. Hermione was forced to step out of the way as they trudged back toward the fireplace, tracking soot and ash across the scrubbed wooden floor.

Ron tossed the powder into the fireplace, shouted "The Shell Cottage," and was about to step into it when Harry caught his arm.

"Wait," he said and gestured back toward Hermione, "what about her?"

"She'll be fine here," grumbled Ron, and disappeared into the flames.

Harry smiled lopsidedly at her, "See you later, I guess," he said, and followed his friend.

Hermione stood for a moment in the now deserted kitchen and then, thinking it would be best to keep herself busy while she was alone in a stranger's house, she picked up a broom from the corner and swept the little kitchen until the floors gleamed. Then she washed the dirty dishes that had piled up in the little sink and set them in the appropriate cupboards. As she was putting the last of the dishes away, her stomach growled like a hungry bear and she thought to herself that no one would mind if she ate just a little bit of food while she waited. She was, after all, their guest. So, she fetched some stew from a cold cauldron by the fire and a little loaf of bread from a basket on the counter, and a little cup of water from the pump above the sink, and placed all of these things in a little wooden bowl and on a little wooden plate and in a little wooden cup, all inscribed with different letters. Hermione was so hungry and thirsty, that she ate all of the stew and the bread and drank all of the water.

After she finished picking the crumbs off of the plate, she decided to wander the strange looking house. She wandered up staircases and down to the cellars. She returned to the kitchen and washed her little dishes in the little kitchen sink.

She watched the sun sink through the little kitchen window, and she wondered if her family would go looking for her in the dark forest. She hoped not, but had no way of reassuring them, and so she would just have to pray they would assume she was spending the night with Madame Greengrass. The sun was sinking earlier and earlier these days, and it was not so far-fetched that she would lose track of time reading in the cottage in the woods.

Pushing worries she could not assuage from her mind, she wandered through the winding rooms of the oddly proportioned house in search of a bed in which she could spend the night. She did indeed find a room, in which seven little beds sat in an even line against a wall that seemed much too large to belong in the house. At the edge of one of the beds was an open book. Hermione picked up the book, for she craved knowledge the way a starving man craves meat, and took the book with her to the bed farthest in the corner. She took off her cloak and folded it at the foot of her bed, and pulled her wand from its pocket. The logical part of her brain said that it would be wisest to give the wand to one of the witches or wizards who had helped her, but the wand had protected her, and so she wanted to keep it safe beside her bed. Perhaps she could learn to use it herself. She laid down in the bed and lit a little candle beside it so that she could read.

The book itself made very little sense to her. It was called _Charms for Young Witches and Wizards_, and it appeared to be a list of spells and the way to perform them. Hermione was the cleverest girl in her town, and that title was not one bestowed lightly. She read until the candle burned low and then decided to attempt one of the spells she had read about.

She picked up the wand off of the bedside table and very quietly, as though afraid of the words themselves, she said, "Lumos." The tip of the wand began to glow with a gentle white light, weak and wavering at first, like a candle in the wind, but as Hermione grew joyous and confident that she had properly cast the spell, the light brightened until it was as strong as a little sun attached to the tip of the wand. Her wand. Her heart fluttered in her ribs like a happy bird.

She continued reading by wandlight after the candle sputtered out, memorizing charms to try in the morning, until her eyelids drooped tiredly. "Nox," she said quietly to her wand, pulled the woolen blankets up around her chin, and fell quickly asleep.

Unbeknownst to her, several floors below, the door opened, and seven pairs of feet trumped doggedly across the scrubbed kitchen floor. One stopped at the table and a voice said, "Oy, mum! Someone's been eating at my place."

"I think," said second man very slowly in a nasally voice, "Yeah, that is! Mum, someone's been eating off of my plate! Ron, was it you?"

"Why would it be me?" Squawked a third voice, which belonged to Ron.

"That's your cup," said a fourth, "And my fork and knife!"

"And my bowl, Ronniekins" said a fifth, which sounded very much like the fourth.

"Don't fight now," Snapped a woman's voice, and all the voices quieted, "You'll wake your sister."

"Would if we could, Mum," Said what was either the fourth or fifth voice, and a sad hush fell over the little group.

"No matter. Off to bed with the lot of you. Now. March!" She shooed them all toward the stairs, which they climbed, each one holding a wand with a glowing tip while they walked.

When they reached the long room which they all shared, a sixth man said, "Hey! Who took my book?"

"It wasn't me," said Ron quickly, "I haven't even been home all day. Been out trying to recapture Bellatrix with you lot, remember?"

"Look," said a seventh voice, Harry's, wearily as he crossed the room toward his bed, "I'm sure we'll get to the bottom of this in the morning, but right now-" But he never finished that sentence, because at that moment, he had looked down at his red-and-gold blankets and saw a girl with wild hair asleep in his bed. "Cor," groaned Harry, "I forgot about her." Louder, to the others, he said, "I think I know who's been using everyone's stuff."

The six other wizards, who had extinguished their wands to get ready for bed, quickly scrambled for their wands. "Who?" demanded the nasally one.

"Her name's Hermione," sighed Harry, "and she's asleep in my bed."

Across the little island country, in a place that Hermione had never dreamed could exist, sat a large and very beautiful manor house, surrounded on all sides by a tall, black iron fence, which itself was more ornate and worth more than anything in Hermione's village. A woman in a black travelling cloak passed through the twisted-metal gates as though they were smoke and continued up the winding brick path. Behind her, metal whimpered as it hardened once again to keep out the unwanted. Ahead of her, snow-white peacocks flapped their wings in soundless terror to escape the footsteps of the woman. Even the countless rose bushes seemed to shy away from the path as she walked.

She reached the front door of the manor itself, and grabbed the twisting serpent knocker and banged once on the front door. Stone gargoyles, with gray tongues lolling around sharp teeth gazed down at her from the roof and gutters, careful not to be spotted and silent as shadows.

She knocked again on the front door, the noise echoing over and over again into the cavernous interior. The door squeaked open, as if of its own accord, and the woman stepped inside, the hood of her cloak still over her head and hiding her face. She stalked through the entrance hall and into a sitting room, paying no attention at all to the priceless artifacts and splendor that surrounded her.

Once safely in the room, she took off her traveling cloak in one sharp, angry motion and screeched into the silent air, "Draco!" The call echoed around the entire house, and portraits scurried from their frames to get as far away from the voice as they could, a shiver of fear running through them.

After a few moments, she called again. This time, she was rewarded by a fair-haired young man entering her drawing room, a dark robe pulled tightly around his bed clothes and his corn silk hair tousled.

"Good evening, Aunt Bellatrix," he said politely, even though his voice was gravelly with sleep. He bowed low at the waist, and when he stood, she walked toward him, glaring up into his mercurial eyes.

She lifted one hand, and raked sharp nails swiftly across Draco's cheek. His neck whipped sideways, but he did not flinch, and turned back to look at her, four lines of blood leaking slowly down his cheek.

"She has my wand," hissed Bellatrix, "The muggle bitch took my wand. Where were you today? You were supposed to be my second!"

"I ran into the girl in the woods," he replied evenly, "She hardly seemed a threat. And besides," he drawled, wiping one hand coolly across his face, "I did come to your side in time to save your from the teenaged blood traitors."

She lifted her other hand and scratched across his other cheek. His face was red now, with parallel lines of blood leaking slowly down his cheeks, but still he did not turn away.

"I take it the Dark Lord did not react well to the news of the muggle's escape?"

"He would not even see me," she hissed, her voice dripping with venom, "Without a wand, I am no better to him than those vermin that walk like us! I waited all night and he would not even look at me without a wand!"

"You'll be wanting a new one then, I suppose."

"A new one?" Bellatrix's shriek echoed into the hallway like a keening spectre, "A _new_ one? No, idiot boy, I do not want a _new one_. I want my _old_ one back. And you are going to get it for me."

"My lady," he bowed again.

She brought her hand back as if to claw his face again, but he reached with snake-like reflexes and caught her wrist as it swung toward him.

"You are my mother's sister, my elder and my better," said Draco stonily, "But you will not strike me again."

Bellatrix snarled, and jerked her hand away, rubbing the red ring around her wrist. "You'll catch the muggle bitch and you'll get me my wand."

"And what am I to do with the girl?"

Bellatrix sneered, "Kill her. Kill her and bring me her lungs and her liver, so that I may rejoice in her death."

Draco allowed his eyes to look once around the room, taking in the splendor of his own home. He knew what sort of money had paid for the gilded ceiling and the indigo and crimson carpet. He knew that blood had been the mortar for the bricks and that dark spells had assured his family's place in society. His family, old and pure, had used whatever means had been necessary to assure the family's survival. They had slaved and toiled for generations for their noble statues and every galleon in the bank, every emerald in their family crest, was a reminder of the responsibility he had inherited.

A weak constitution and a fear of conflict would not force Draco to turn away from his blood right and responsibility. He bowed low to his aunt, "As you wish, my lady." he said into the carpet.


	5. Chapter 5: A Wolf in the Warren

Fear makes the wolf look bigger than he is.

To flamelm, who may or may not bother to ever read my writing again, since it takes me so damn long to update anything ever.

Disclaimers: I don't own anything related to Harry Potter. If I did, the books would probably be rotting in a closet somewhere, so I think we should breathe a collective sigh of relief that they are JKR's intellectual property and not mine.

ALSO I TOTALLY STARTED WRITING THIS BEFORE SNOW WHITE AND THE HUNTSMAN REARED ITS UGLY AND INACCURATE HEAD.

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A Wolf in the Warren

While Hermione slept, she dreamt of parchment burning while a great beast with gray eyes looked on, a snarl twisting its vermillion snout in rage. The sight was frightful, but she was not afraid. She was quiet, inside and out, while the fire popped and the parchment curled into black flowers.

Hermione awoke the next morning to sun streaming in through the little window and a comfortable weight on her chest. She opened her eyes and found herself greeted by Crookshanks' yellow gaze. When he saw that she was awake, he pressed his wet nose against her face and purred quietly. She scratched him lazily behind one ear for a moment as the light spread like a great bird over her bed.

Her mind was filled with the events of yesterday, but in the bright daylight, it was impossible to fear fabled witches and wizards that she'd only learned of the day before.

She sat up slowly, Crookshanks standing and leaping silently to the floor, his bottle-brush tail proud in the air. As she watched him walk silently through the doorway, her gaze slid to the other beds in the room. She realized with quickly warming cheeks that each other bed held a sleeping person, which indicated that the bed she was currently occupying also belonged to someone.

She swung her feet over the edge of the bed and stole from the room as quietly as she could, stopping only to snatch her wand from the bedside table with fumbling fingers.

She stole down the creaking stairs and found herself in the kitchen that she had entered through the evening before.

This time, she was not alone. She saw immediately that she was now in the company of a plump woman with hair as red as blood and skin as white as snow.

"Excuse me, madame," said Hermione, dropping into a deep curtsey as the woman turned to look at her.

The woman beamed at Hermione, taken in by her humble, sensible skirts and the earnestness in her brown eyes. "Hello, dear," she said loudly, and Hermione feared that the boom of her voice would wake the sleepers upstairs. "Glad you're up. Ron and Harry told me all about what happened yesterday. Have a seat. I'll put the kettle on."

The woman said all of this very quickly and with such authority that Hermione could do nothing but obey. She silently slid herself into a chair before the table and looked about the kitchen in the strong morning light. There was a large clock with strange hands and there were dried herbs hanging from the ceiling. Every inch of counter space was covered, and so it took Hermione a moment to notice that there was a knife on the counter besides the sink basin and that it was cutting onions as though an invisible person were holding it.

The red-haired woman herself was standing in front of a large metal kettle, a piece of wood- a wand- in her hand. She tapped the kettle twice and said something that Hermione could not catch and, with that, the kettle whistled happily and a large mug of tea was put on the scrubbed table before Hermione.

Crookshanks brushed himself around her ankles and she took a small sip of the tea.

"You must've had quite a shock, dearie," said the woman, sitting down opposite Hermione with her own mug of tea steaming in her plump hands.

"I'm Madame Weasley, by the way, although you can just call me Molly. I'm Ron's mother." From the freckles across her fair skin and the color of her hair, Hermione had surmised this last bit by herself, but she nodded and responded with a 'how do you do' and her own name.

"I suppose you have some questions about all of this?" Madame Weasley prodded gently.

Hermione took one last long sip of tea before she answered. "If it's not too bold, Madame Weasley-"

"Molly," she gently interrupted.

"Molly," Amended Hermione before continuing, "I have several questions. First of all, I would like to know what happens to magical children who are born of non-magical parents with no one around to teach them spells."

Madame Weasley appeared taken aback by the specificity of this question, but responded after a moment. "Well, that depends on where they are, of course. If they are near to other wizarding families, they learn charms, spells, and potions from those witches and wizards."

"And if there is no one near to teach them magic?" Hermione pressed, her heart in her throat.

Madame Weasley looked at her very carefully. "Perhaps they then go without learning how to use their gifts. That is not to say," she hurried on, "that they are any less gifted than those fortunate enough to be born into other circumstances." She looked hesitantly at Hermione for a moment before continuing. "Why do you ask, dear?"

Hermione briefly considered her options and, eventually, pulled out her wand and very confidently said "Lumos." Even with the morning light flooding into the kitchen, the glow of Hermione's wand was visible.

"Where did you get that wand, dearie?" Madame Weasley asked.

"It belonged to that woman from yesterday. The one who was in Madame Greengrass's home." Hermione answered. She muttered a soft Nox and slid her wand back into her sleeve for safe keeping.

"Bellatrix?" Madame Weasley smiled wide and wicked. "So that's why she didn't join the fight. Oh, I am sure she is furious about this."

Hermione shifted uncomfortably in her seat.

"You just hang on to that," Madame Weasley said, "You must be very clever to have learned a spell in only one day. Who taught it to you?"

"I read it in a book," Hermione replied, her face flushing with pleasure.

"You learned it simply by reading about it? No one demonstrated it for you?" Madame Weasley looked puzzled at first, but pleased. "You must indeed be very clever."

Hermione did not know how to respond to this, or the doubt that was lurking in Madame Weasley's eyes, but she was saved from awkward conversation by the sound of many feet trump-trump-trumping down the stairs and, one by one, six tousled heads of red hair came into view.

"Morning, mum," said a voice, heavy with sleep, and the others mumbled their own greeting. Hermione's moment with Madame Weasley was ended abruptly, as the older woman bustled around the kitchen, preparing to feed six hungry mouths.

The boys themselves sat or stood around the table, eyeing Hermione with questions etched on their faces.

"So are you a muggle?" Asked one boy.

"George!" Snapped Madame Weasley from beside the fire. "Miss Granger is a witch."

The boys all looked at her with redoubled interest. "Sorry, miss. Ronnie told us last night that you were a muggle."

'Ronnie' was dragged before her, his eyes and face as red as his hair as he mumbled for his brothers to release him.

Hermione smiled to herself. They were a funny group, this lot. Voices floated around her and she was quite pleased simply to listen to the banter and to answer the odd question that was thrown her way. Something that smelled distinctly like bacon fat was beginning to fill up the kitchen and Hermione was peaceful in the crowd.

"Harry!" Said Ron loudly, ducking under the arm of the one called Bill as a black, tousled head came into view, glasses askew, blinking sleepily. "Mum says Hermione's a witch!"

Harry, who did not appear to be completely awake, blinked sleepily between Ron, his mother, and Hermione.

"But she's no training, poor dear," added Madame Weasley, placing a large plate of bacon on the table, and the horde of young men descended upon it like a pack of hungry dogs, each going to the cupboard for their own little plate and cup before sitting in their own seat at the table. Hermione moved from the seat she had occupied to one which had been conjured for her from some other room, and she sat between Ron and Harry.

"Dad will go nutters when he finds out we brought a muggle born witch home," said the one called Charlie through a mouthful of food. "He's obsessed with muggle stuff," he added in explanation as Hermione's eyebrows knit together in confusion.

This puzzled her, since so far, she could see very little difference between what happened in non-magical houses and magical ones.

"You'll stay with us, of course," pressed Madame Weasley, "We can't exactly send you home, now that you've Bellatrix's wand and no way to defend yourself. We'll teach you, of course. We cannot let talent like yours go to waste."

"In return, I'll help around the house wherever I can," added Hermione quickly, who was not one to remain idle. She was greedy for the chance to learn. "I'll need to talk to my family first," she added quickly. They certainly thought her lost or worse at this point, and she did not want to risk her family searching the woods for her. There were wolves and worse between those dark trees.

"Yes, yes," said Madame Weasley, and she did not look Hermione in the eye when she spoke. Hermione was not fool enough to speak it out loud to these near-perfect strangers, but Madame Weasley seemed eager to move the conversation on to different topics and Hermione knew not why. So, the conversation drifted away from Hermione while she considered her options.

After breakfast, the seven young men went upstairs to wash up. Madame Weasley informed Hermione that they would all be out looking for Bellatrix today. She had no wand, and so her master think her less than useless, which meant she might be easy to find.

Hermione nodded mutely as Madame Weasley assured Hermione that she would be safe at the Borrough (the title of this ramshackle abode) because of secret-keeping or some sort of protection spell. The words were as foreign as the stars to Hermione's ears, but she grasped at them in her mind, anyway, eager to learn all that she could.

Before long, all of the Weasleys had left through the fireplace, and Hermione watched them go, carefully noting the little jar of green powder on the mantle and the way they each clearly spoke where they were going: The Ministry, Hogsmeade, Diagon Alley. Hermione could only assume that each place had a name attached to it that was unique to it, although she did not know what these names meant or how they were chosen.

And then Hermione was alone in the kitchen of the Burrough and she set quickly about work.

Hermione would be prisoner in no gilded cage and so she threw her red travelling cloak about her shoulders, slid her wand up her sleeve and called Crookshanks to her. He came padding out from somewhere and looked expectantly at her. "We're going home," she explained, although he was only a cat. They couldn't be too far from her home, could they? travel across the country or farther was surely impossible even for witches and wizards.

When she opened her arms, he jumped into them. Without another word, Hermione opened the front door of the cottage and stepped out into the world.


	6. Chapter 6: The Heart of a Wolf

**Disclaimer:** I still don't own Harry Potter. A shame, I know.

To those who reviewed this so far: Thank you so very much. You make my heart glow and the flowers grow.

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Hermione's eyes dropped like a stone to the ground at her feet and Crookshanks struggled against her arms. He was growing uncomfortable, and so was she. They had been walking for half a day now, over hills and along nameless dirt roads and still she could not find her way home. She briefly considered turning around, but was sure that she would not know how to return to the Burrow even if she wanted to.

_I should have left a trail of stones or string_, she thought to herself, mentally chastising her own lack of foresight. The fact was, though, that upon setting out, she was not interested in returning, only on getting home.

Now, though, she was tired and she was thirsty and her feet were beginning to ache in her cloth-soled shoes. Crookshanks yowled and dug his nails into her arms.

She inhaled a sharp "Ow!" and then spoke down at her orange travelling companion. "Alright, fine. I'll let you down. Just don't run off."

Grumbling, she set the cat gingerly on the ground before her and, thinking that she could really use a break as well, flopped down onto the grassy knoll where the two weary travellers now found themselves. It was a bright day and the sun was beating down on Hermione's face, making her feel tired and heavy.

She was utterly and irrevocably lost, and that was not something that Hermione Granger was particularly used to.

There was a tugging at her sleeve, and her eyes slid down toward her hand. She watched with some interest as Crookshanks tugged at her sleeve. She was unsure what he was doing and so chose to only watch his progress for now. Quickly, though, it became apparent that he was tugging her wand out of her sleeve. By the time she realized this, though, he had the stick of wood in his mouth and had scampered just out of her reach.

"Crooks!" Grumbled Hermione, sitting up, "Bring that back here this instant!"

It ought to be pointed out that Hermione was not one who generally spoke to animals as though they were capable of understanding human speech. She generally recognized the difference in species and acted accordingly, but she would be a fool not to admit that Crookshanks was the smartest of his kind that she had ever seen and something in his yellow eyes belied an intelligence that, simply put, merited civilized discussion.

Unfortunately for Hermione, now was not one of those times in which Crookshanks could be held to human standards of behavior. Instead of returning the wand to Hermione, he simply sat down on the grass and twitched his tail. After a few seconds, Hermione stood and began to walk toward him, reaching for him with both hands. He, naturally, scampered just out of her reach. She took a few steps nearer to him, and again he retreated.

This process continued for about half an hour, during which time Hermione noted that Crookshanks was leading her away from the road that she had been walking upon and toward a snake-necked river, carpeted with sharp and shining stones. He was only just ahead of her at this point, and she had stopped attempting to retrieve her wand from him, figuring that he would either eventually get bored with the stick or he would see fit to return it to her. Whether he really knew where he was leading them or not, Hermione was unsure. Of course, she was not entirely sure that she had been leading them anywhere in particular, anyway, and so being lead blindly by a cat was not so much a step down as a step sideways.

After about an hour or so of walking, Hermione found herself surrounded by thin fingers of trees, with darker forests up ahead. While these were not necessarily the woods that she knew, they were woods, and the change in landscape was definitely preferable to wandering aimlessly out in the open.

They had been wandering in the woods for less than fifteen minutes when Crookshanks' hackles rose and his back arched. A low growl rumbled in his throat and Hermione's heart quickened in her chest, although she did not immediately know what caused her fear.

There were two amber eyes glowing out of the hollow of a tree, glaring down at them with more interest than an owl generally displayed during daytime hours. Without taking her eyes off of the enormous bird as it emerged from its hollow to get a better look at them, Hermione scooped up her cat, just in case the owl was staring hungrily at him. "Shoo!" she called at the owl. Much to her surprise, the owl obeyed, and took wing, sailing silently back in the direction from whence she had come.

She set Crookshanks down- first retrieving her wand from him- and began following him into the woods, but he was trotting along so quickly that she had to hurry to keep sight of him in the thickening forest.

They continued like this in silence for a while, but Crookshanks stopped suddenly a second time. While Hermione scanned the trees above them for more owls, the cat disappeared. "Crooks?" she asked the quiet forest.

"Unfortunately, no," came a smooth voice, and a figure stepped out from behind a thick tree.

"You again," said Hermione, and fear and annoyance vied for dominance inside of her again.

The man in the wolfish mask paused for a moment, apparently taken aback by her response. Had he expected her to shriek in girlish fear and then to cower from him? If so, he would be sorely disappointed. Hermione was too proud to cower, although she now knew that this man in the mask did not want her to live, just as the woman who was not Madame Greengrass had not wanted her to live.

Eventually, "Yes," he silkily replied, as though he had not paused, "me. Again."

Hermione raised her wand, and the man cocked his head to one side. "So it _is_ you who has her wand." He was speaking more to himself than to her, she knew, and so she did not answer.

She was racking her brain for the spells she had read about the evening before.

As if reading her mind, Mister Wolf asked "And what will you do with that, Little Red Riding Hood?" She could not see his face for the mask, but she was sure that there was a mocking smile or a smirk hidden under it.

He had called her 'little' again. She drew herself up to her full height, and said with as much conviction as she could muster, "_Wingardium Leviosa,_" she made sure to inflect her voice precisely the way the book had dictated and felt a thrill of triumph rush through her as Mister Wolf's wand lifted out of his hand and rose higher and higher into the trees.

He looked up at it, the pointed mask tilted upwards. "Well, well, well," he said softly, "it seems that you are not as harmless as you first seem, my pet."

There was something in his voice that made her take a step backwards. He was unafraid of her.

"Accio wand," he said casually, and the wand dropped like a stone back into his waiting palm.

Hermione took another step backwards, her heart hammering against her ribs. The muscles in her legs were tensing, preparing to run.

"Pertificus Totalus," he said in his lazy way, and it was as if Hermione had been turned to stone. She could only watch as Mister Wolf stepped toward her. He did not stop until his lupine mask was only inches from her face. He was inspecting her. From this narrow distance, she could see stabs of yellow in his quicksilver irises. They reminded her of granite or of frost- something immobile and uncaring. His unfeeling gaze took in her hair, traced the line of her jaw and moved down toward the hand that clutched her wand.

"That is not yours," he drawled so softly that she could only just hear the words. His gloved hands did not so much as brush against hers as he pulled the wand easily from her immobile grip.

She wanted to stop him- to scream for him to return what was hers, but still, she could not move.

He took a step back from her and raised his hand to her heart. "Goodbye, my pet," he said without any true feeling in his voice.

Hermione waited, her breath frozen in her lungs for seemingly endless moments as she waited for him to cast whatever spell he would.

After an unmoving age, he dropped his wand and sighed in frustration. "Not here," he grumbled to himself. He ran his hand over the back of his neck in an aggravated gesture. "The light is too dim. I won't be able to do it here."

He was explaining something away to himself, although she did not know what.

"Imperio," he said, and suddenly Hermione was wrapped in cotton and only vaguely aware of what was going on around her. She knew that somewhere very far away, she was walking, but she did not know for how long or to where.

When she resurfaced, she was out of the wood, but she still could not move. Out of the corner of her eye, she caught a flash of orange fur disappearing into a clump of dried grass.

"I knew you were with those blood traitors and Potter," he was explaining, spitting Harry's last name with venom. "Perfect Potter, but of course I couldn't get to the house itself, so I've been waiting for one of you to slip up and give your location away. I never expected them to just let you run around on your own." He was speaking freely, and had not seemed to notice that she was actually listening to him.

"They didn't let me do anything," she said and he whirled back toward her. For a moment she was sure that she had startled him, but the casual slump returned to his shoulders quickly.

"No," his voice reminded her of silk or of icicles. Something smooth and cold. "I suppose you just walked out the door."

"Yes," she sniffed, insulted that he didn't really consider this an option.

He did not appear to have any response to that, and so she continued, "It's rather rude to cast spells on people, you know," she said testily, "and I haven't even done anything to you."

There was a tense moment of silence before Mister Wolf shook his head, "You are insufferable," he said with wonderment in his voice. He appeared to catch himself suddenly and when he next spoke there was iron in his utterances and nothing else. "And now it ends."

He raised his wand to her heart again and she stood, unable to move, staring blankly at him.

"Imperio," he said again and, from far away, she heard him tell her to close her eyes. She did. An eternity could have passed like that. After days, millenia, or minutes, he told her to turn around, and she obeyed. Eventually, she was told to turn back to face him, to open her eyes, to look angry, to look stupid. She walked for a while, laid down on the ground, acted like she was dead and then the cotton lifted from her brain and he swore violently. His mask was askew and his shoulders were slumped.

She was afraid to test her feet, afraid to move. He turned his back to her. She was beginning to suspect that Death's Shadow had flown on, but she was not yet sure that he would not strike if she ran.

Something warm pressed against her ankles, and she looked down to see Crookshanks staring up at her, his front paws against her knees. He meowed once.

Hermione glanced up at the man in the mask, expecting him to say something about the cat. Instead, he was staring at her. He hissed something she couldn't hear through the mask. The wolf face remained impassive, staring unfeelingly at her, unaware of the seething of the man behind it.

His gray eyes met hers and she heard him mutter, very softly, "Stupefy."

Her body dropped like a stone to the ground at his feet. The cat stared accusingly at him, but he ignored it. He pointed his wand straight up into the air. "Morsmordre," he said, and vanished with a crack like a whip.

* * *

Don't forget to drop me a review if you feel like it!


	7. Chapter 7: Wolf Bones

First of all, I'm sorry to anyone who tried to read this yesterday and couldn't. It got weird looking and I don't know why. I think it's better now. Thank you for pointing it out to me.

ALSO: There is a slight **TW in this chapter for implied cannibalism**. That shouldn't surprise anyone because, hey, fairy tales are dark, but if cannibalism bothers you, you may want to not read this. Send me a pm and I'll give you a summary instead.

Disclaimer: I own a piano. I own a computer. I do not own Harry Potter.

* * *

"My lady," he spoke softly, and kneeled before the high backed chair, where she sat stiff-backed as regal as any queen.

"Rise," she hissed, her voice soft and sharp, beckoning him forward with one regal hand. "And show me what it is that you have brought."

He rose and took two brave steps toward his aunt, carefully keeping his eyes to the ornate carpet, and held the box out to her, the wand resting atop it.

She snatched the wand first, a caw of victory escaping her lips and echoing throughout the cavernous room, and for a moment, he feared that he was surrounded by an army of hers, all cackling, all pleased to have their wands back.

"Good," she cooed, "Yes, yes yes yes. You have done well, Draco," she breathed, hardly sparing a glance for his still-bowed form, "He will be most pleased by this. Most pleased that I can rejoin him now!" At that, as if brought to the memory of her anguish and mortification, Bellatrix's head snapped to the box that her nephew still held out to her.

She descended upon him, opening the box and cackling softly to herself, "Good, Draco. Very good. Did she cry, Draco?" Bellatrix's voice softened in dreamy pleasure as she reached out one thin finger to stroke the side of the cold liver tenderly, lovingly, "Did she scream for mummy and daddy and that muggle god they're always babbling on about?" She had adopted a high-pitched baby voice.

When Draco did not respond, "Did she scream, boy?!" She screeched, slamming the lid shut on the box and yanking the young man's head up toward hers by a fistful of his fair hair. "Answer me!"

His eyes narrowed in anger, flashing dangerously. "You would do well to unhand me, Aunt Bellatrix," he said evenly. His tone sounded bored almost, as though this entire conversation were beneath him, but Bellatrix withdrew her hand as though she had been burned.

The witch whirled around, her dark hair snapping behind her in a curtain. "Cissy!" she hissed through bared teeth, training her wand on the witch in the doorway.

"Do not touch my son, Bella," said the new witch, evenly, her tone a biting frost and her wand still trained on her sister.

Bellatrix snarled, "We were talking, Cissy. There was no need for you to-"

"Not. In. My. House." Narcissa cut in, her words snapping like twigs. Her eyes were chips of blue ice and her hair, as fair as her sister's was dark, fell to her waist, perfectly straight and not a hair out of place.

Bellatrix weighed her options, and lowered her wand. A smile curled up her gaunt and narrow face, "Fine, Cissy, have it your way, but Draco will join me for dinner. We will dine on our new trophies, the two of us," she glanced at her nephew and he dropped his eyes to the carpet before she could demand an answer of him, "As," Bellatrix licked her lips and slid her eyes back to her sister, who had not yet lowered her wand, her cold eyes glued to her sister's face, "A family." And, with that, Bellatrix pushed past Narcissa and out of the room.

* * *

Hermione could hear voices as if from far away and moving closer to her.

"Enervate," said a voice she faintly recognized, and Hermione sat up, gasping for air, fists flailing.

She felt her knuckles connect with something and the figure nearest to her rolled sideways with a muttered curse. The voice did not match the satin one of the man in the mask, and it was this thought that caused her to calm her breathing and try to take in exactly who was around her.

It was one of the red-haired men who was holding the side of his face and glaring at her, as a nearly identical red-haired man was rolling on the ground a few feet away, laughing so hard tears were rolling down his face.

"Oh," she mumbled, finding her voice, "Sorry. I-I thought you were someone else."

At this, the man she had hit broke into a wide grin, too. "Cor, Hermione," he laughed, "I'd hate to see the sorry bloke you were trying to wail on." He dropped his hand from his face to reveal a bright red, first-sized bump already rising just under his eye. She could already tell that it was going to bruise.

Hermione tried to look appropriately ashamed, but was rather proud of the hit. It made her feel capable, and she imagined fondly how just such a bruise would look on the man with the wolf mask. Her lips twitched.

She looked over one shoulder and then the other.

"Did you see him?" She asked the twins breathlessly, trying to collect herself. He couldn't have gone far. Surely she had not been unconscious for very long for the sun had hardly seemed to move in the sky, but the twins only shook their heads in unison.

"Gone, Hermione," said one.

"Long gone," agreed the other.

"Cast that and apparated right out, most like," said the first, and pointed up at the sky. Hermione's eyes followed his finger and she could just make out the faint glowing of green stars against the afternoon light.

"We thought you were dead," said the second twin, "when we saw that."

"Glad you weren't, of course," said the first, "Mum would have a fit if she found out you were dead."

"Anyway, what are you doing out here?" Asked the second, and they both looked at her with appraising blue eyes.

Hermione felt shame heat her cheeks and knew that she had been very foolish to try to leave alone on foot. "I was trying to go home," she mumbled into her skirts, bunching the fabric in her hands.

The twins exchanged looks that contained an entire conversation in a language Hermione could never understand. "We don't think that's such a good idea right now," said one of them eventually, his voice slow and even.

Dread settled like a stone in Hermione's stomach. "Why?" She croaked, sure she already knew the answer.

"We're not at liberty to talk about that, but mum'll explain everything once we get back, alright?"

Hermione did not want to go back. Hermione wanted to go home to her mother and her father and Astoria. She wanted everything to work out fine and nothing to be wrong and for things like witches and wizards to only exist in fairy stories.

But Hermione was a clever girl, and she knew that fear only made the wolf look larger, and so she swallowed down the lump in her throat, and rose to her feet, dusting her skirts and travelling cloak as best as she could.

Something pressed itself against her legs, and she looked down to see Crookshanks circling her ankles protectively, and she felt braver and stood taller. "Right, then. Let's go."

When they reached the borough, the front door flew open and Harry and Ron, closely followed by Madame Weasley and a troupe of her children.

"Are you alright?" Asked Harry, reaching them first.

"Is she ok?" Asked Ron, looking over Harry's shoulder anxiously.

"I'm fine," she said bracingly, looking from one to the other with a tired smile. "Really."

"Where did you go?" Asked Harry.

Hermione was too ashamed to answer, but luckily, just then Madame Weasley reached them and addressed her own sons first.

"Who was it?" Asked the matron, her face tight with worry.

"Hermione," said the twin without the bruise on his cheek.

"No," Hissed Madame Weasley softly, "Who was the mark for?"

The twins shrugged again. "No one was dead, mum. The only person near it was Hermione, and she was just stunned."

"We were lucky, then, that the attack wasn't worse" Madame Weasley said sharply, and her shoulders sagged visibly in relief.

"We think whoever attached her did use the imperius curse on her," said one of the twins, "Tell them what you told us, Hermione. About the bloke with the wand and how you had to do whatever he said."

Hermione had half a mind to say that she hadn't exactly been attacked. It was more like she had been bothered by a smug-voiced overgrown toddler for about an hour or so, and then had been knocked out. It was hardly the most traumatic thing that had happened to her so far. And yet, the memory of acrid fear on her tongue, of the sureness of her own death, stilled her voice before she could speak up to defend the man in the wolf mask.

"Were you harmed?" Madame Weasley was asking her, and so she shook her head.

"No, I don't think I am, but I did hit him," she motioned to the twin with the bruise sheepishly, "I didn't mean to," she added quickly as Madame Weasley turned to survey the as yet unnoticed damage done to her own child. "I was waking up and I thought- I thought-"

Her voice trailed off, but that was alright, since Madame Weasley had seized the twin by the jaw and was turning his face this way and that way to see the bruise from all angles. "Oh," she said finally, smiling reassuringly at Hermione, "I've got some paste in the kitchen that'll clear that right up no problem. Nothing to worry about."

With that, Madame Weasley began ushering the entire group back into the kitchen but Hermione hung back.

"Madame Weasley," she said softly.

"What is it, dear," said the witch kindly, slowing her pace to walk beside Hermione.

"Why can't I go home?" She asked before her courage could leave her.

The smile dropped from Madame Weasley's face and a look of pity replaced it.

"Just wait until Arthur gets back, Dearie. We'll explain everything then, but perhaps some dinner first. There's a lot to talk about, and no need to do it all at once, is there?"

Hermione wanted to protest, but she knew that it would be in vain, as the witch was already shuffling ahead and into the loud kitchen.

* * *

Dinner was a tasteless affair, but indeed, Arthur Weasley tromped out of the fireplace just as a pink stain was spreading across the horizon and the sun was dipping low and orange in the sky. Madame Weasley and her husband spoke in hushed tones by the fireplace, and Hermione knew that they were talking about her, for they would throw glances her way from time to time.

Eventually, Arthur tromp, tromp, tromped up to her and sat heavily opposite her at the scrubbed wooden table. The seven young men were outside, flying about in the evening sun on broomsticks. Hermione could hear their shouts of triumph and frustration through the little window.

"You're, uh, from the same town as Madame Greengrass, aren't you?" Began Arthur Weasley, and he scratched the back of one ear and glanced to his wife.

"Yes," Hermione responded promptly.

"There was an attack, you know, when the boys-"

"An attack?" Hermione cut in, but her voice was soft, as if saying the words out loud would make them all the more real.

"Uh, well, yes," Arthur Weasley continued.

"Was anyone injured?" Hermione asked, breathless with fear. The faces of her friends flashed before her eyes. Of Astoria and her wide, pale eyes. Of her parents.

She was on her feet before she knew what she was doing, pacing back and forth across the small kitchen. "I want to see it," was all she said.

Madame Weasley stepped forward, "Dear," she said gently, "I don't think-"

Hermione turned her flushed face to the older witch. "No," she said and her voice shook. "No," she repeated, and her voice was strong. "I want to- I have to see what happened. It was- is- it is my home and I want to see it. Now."

"But dear, there are no-"

"Molly," said Arthur, glancing up at his wife, "look at her. She'll just leave again if we don't take her, and this way...this way we'll at least be there for her when she...when she sees. I'll tell you now, though, miss, it isn't a pleasant sight and you don't have to go. You're welcome to stay here as long as you want. If you're half as clever as Molly says you are, you belong in our world, anyway."

Hermione shook her head, not trusting her voice.

Arthur rose heavily from the table. "Perhaps we should wait till morning, after a good sleep, this may all seem-"

"No," Hermione choked out, "No. I want to see now. It...it will be worse, not knowing." Hermione hated not knowing something more than almost anything else in the whole world. Even horror was better when you knew that it was truth. In her heart, she hoped, prayed, and believed that her parents were still alive, that this was a whole, large misunderstanding. It had only been a bit more than a day since she had left her home. The damage could not logically be as severe as this family was making it seem.

"If you're sure." Arthur Weasley held a hand out to her. "You're going to have to side-along apparate if we want to get there before tomorrow morning, so just hold on to my hand, alright? On the count of three. One, two-"

And Hermione felt as though invisible bands were tightening around her chest, forcing her into a tunnel which was much too small for her person, like a badger in a rabbit warren. She could not breathe. She was drowning. Yet, just when she was sure that she would break under the pressure and that she would surely die, the pressure was gone and the bands had vanished. She was still gripping Arthur Weasley's hand much too tightly, but the smell of the black forest on the edge of town was filling her nose. She was in a copse of trees at the edge of the woods and she could just see the light of the setting sun bathing the fields that stood between the woods and the village in golden light. She was home.

And yet.

There was something smoky and metallic in the air and, as if in a trance, she dropped Arthur Weasley's hand and strode out of the wood. He may have told her to stay covered, and he shouted a spell after her. It hit her, of course, and she felt as though cool water were sliding over her body. When she glanced down at her hand, there was only a faint shimmer. She dropped her hand and strode onward, toward town.

She walked the dirt roads of her hometown, looking in dark windows for a sign of a familiar face, but there was nothing. Not a footprint, not a sigh from a horse or a cry from a baby. It was dead, shadowed in the fading light and suspended between reality and dream in the way only ghost towns can be. She sped up, her feet crunching quickly as she turned down one street and then another until she came to the home that she shared with her parents and Astoria.

She turned the knob of the door and it swung open silently.

There was nothing. There was no sign of a struggle. No sign of death. Two sets of dishes were laid out for dinner and there were bones in a little heap on the floor, left over from the meal that the two had shared. She walked into the dark little house, her feet creaking on the worn floorboards.

She went to her parents' room, first. There was nothing out of place there, no valuables missing, no blood on the walls, but there was a faint smell of something sinister, almost like rot, that tickled Hermione's nose and told her that something wicked had happened here. Next, she went to the room that she shared with Astoria and, again, nothing was out of place.

There was, however, a little roll of parchment on the pillow of Hermione's bed. With trembling hands, she reached out and unfurled it, her nut-brown eyes scanning quickly across Astoria's handwriting.

_Hermione-_

_I don't know what's happening here. Men in masks came into town early today and people are eating each other. Parents are killing their children and eating them. Then they're eating each other. I'm frightened, Hermione, very frightened. Please find me. Please save me before they get me, too._

That was all the note said, and the writing was splotched and smeared in places where Astoria had not let the ink dry before swiping her hand over it.

Her hands trembled so violently that the parchment fell back to the bed. Hermione was not crying, was not feeling much of anything in particular, but that was because of the pounding of blood in her ears. She was aware that she was breathing and that her heart was beating and there was no room for anything else. She walked slowly back down the stairs and found Arthur Weasley scanning the darkening kitchen with the light from his wand.

_Lumos,_ she thought absently. _That's the name of the spell._

He looked in her direction when he heard her feet on the stairs, and muttered a spell to make her visible again.

"They were eating each other." She said flatly in a voice that did not sound like her own.

"They were under the imperius curse, the lot of them," Arthur corrected gently, "They were muggles. They didn't know- couldn't know."

"They were cannibals," Hermione felt as though someone had scooped out her organs and left only her hollow shell behind.

"They were cursed," corrected Arthur sternly, "They were not themselves when this happened."

"Astoria," began Hermione, looking around the little kitchen that had seemed so safe only moments before and her eyes landed on the little pile of bones under the table, brown from cooking and black from shadow. Realization dawned on Hermione then, and her hand flew to her mouth and her legs buckled underneath her, sending her to the floor. "Oh my god," she gasped and crawled towards the bones.

"Oh my god," she repeated as she sank under the table beside the little pile. The bones were not as little as she had first supposed them to be, longer than those of a rabbit, yet still finer than those of a cow. With trembling fingers, she pulled what looked like it had once been a femur from the pile, her eyes tracing the scrapes of a knife along the bone, the scraps of meat still stuck near the top where the diner had not been able to pick the bone clean.

"They killed themselves, you know. When the curse was lifted. We had a few at- at the hospital- but even those who made it, who survived, are all dead now."

Hermione registered the words without any reaction. "I want to bury," Hermione said and then her voice died in her throat and she choked.

"Sorry?" Said Arthur, kneeling down to get a better few of her under the table. When he saw the bone that she was cradling to her chest like a baby, he gasped and swore. "Ah. We missed one, then."

"Astoria," Hermione barked, and then clarified. "It's not 'one'. It's Astoria." Hermione's voice cracked and a dry sob shook her body, but her eyes were still dry, glowing with fury and anguish. Her lips were white as ash. White as snow. "I will bury her." She said, and, gathering the bones into a neat little pile, she stood and marched back up the stairs to retrieve something to transport them all in, for there were too many for just her two hands alone to carry.

* * *

She wrapped the bones in Astoria's favorite scarf. It was muslin, a gift from a boy two summers ago who spoke of far off Spain and France. It seemed fitting, somehow, for the dark smudges that were once Astoria Greengrass were tucked into the earth with this gossamer thing. She did not let Arthur Weasley help to dig the hole nor to cover it again, and after she had patted the last bit of dirt into place and bade her friend a good rest, she stood, and looked up at the tree. It was a Juniper tree, and Hermione had chosen this spot because Astoria had loved this tree the most of all of the trees in the yard.

If this had been a fairy tale, this was the point when the magical bird would fly out of the earth and right all of the wrongs that had happened thus far. If this were a fairy story, Hermione would be whisked back to her mother and father and Astoria by a handsome prince on a white horse, but this was not a fairy story. No, this was not the world of fairy stories and childhood. Not any more. This was a world in which witches and wizards made parents eat their own children, and then moved on like a plague to infect some other town. There was no fairy tale ending to be wrung out of this. There was no getting blood from a stone.

"You said it was the imperius curse?" She asked.

"Yes," replied Arthur Weasley, surprise evident in his tone.

"That's the same curse the man in the mask used on me today," she said, although she wasn't sure why this was important to say.

Arthur Weasley nodded and in the bruise-blue of twilight, she could just see the motion. "Death Eaters like that one. We call it one of the unforgivable curses. A horrible thing, really, but you were lucky this morning. Whoever attacked you could have done much worse." He gestured with his chin at the town around them.

Hermione turned with steel in her eyes to Arthur Weasley, "I want to fight them," she said with cold resolve, "I want to make sure this never happens to any other town." She linked her arm in his, and waited while he counted to three. When the invisible bands tightened around her chest, she wondered if that's how they felt- everyone she had ever loved- when hopelessness fell upon them in human shapes behind masks. She wondered if that is what death felt like.

She was given her own room that night, and Arthur Weasley's assurance that he would retrieve her clothes and books the next day. She was on the third floor, and was assured that the banging she was hearing was only the ghoul in the attic. She sobbed herself to sleep with only that mythical, unseen noisemaker to hear it.


End file.
